


Heart to Heart

by vshendria



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Platonic Cuddling, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 03:17:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14275779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vshendria/pseuds/vshendria
Summary: This would be Ye Olde Cuddling Naked in the Forest to Stave Off Hypothermia fic.  Marcus and Tomas find themselves in the wilds of Canada without heat or electricity.  The fire has gone out, and Marcus is a terrible bed-mate.I opened the schmoop tap wide for this one.  Also, there is probably a lot more humour than is generally appropriate in relation to a life-threatening case of hypothermia.Written for the April Ex-O-Wri-Mo, and because the wonderful cutiesonthehorizon asked me to.





	Heart to Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cutiesonthehorizon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutiesonthehorizon/gifts).



> Edgar Allen Poe wrote something that's always stuck with me. If you're writing a story that is fundamentally unbelievable (i.e. about the supernatural), then you want to do your best to be sure that all the other details are absolutely correct. So, for the record, there really is a town called Sioux Lookout in northwestern Ontario. Pelican Ridge is a fictional First Nation but it absolutely could exist. There are people who do not have electricity, reliable heat or drinkable water. Basic supplies are very expensive. And yes, it does snow in May in these parts. Not often, but it does.
> 
> I must admit, I'm not 100% confident of the realism of my depiction of hypothermia, but I tried.

                “Yield to God!” Marcus shouted.

                Propane lamps guttered and the rough pine table shook, thumping against the core floor.

                “Yield to God!” Tomas echoed at nearly the same decibel. 

                Every object in the room that was not fastened down gave a final shudder.  Dogs that had been howling and barking incessantly for the past hour, occasionally joined in descant by their more feral wilderness cousins, fell silent. 

                The demon surrendered at last after a final six-hour session of prayers and shouting, leaving the body of Melanie Fox.  Her parents, who had been standing in a corner clinging to each other and their battered copy of the Oji-Cree Bible, were weeping.  Melanie was thirteen, an honour student at Pelican Ridge High School and already an accomplished artist.  She was in rough shape, barely conscious.  

                Tomas and Marcus were not much better off.  Tomas had taken a blow to the face that resulted in a bloody, swollen lip.  He shot Marcus a look, begging for confirmation.  To be sure, it seemed like something had submitted and nature reasserted itself but Marcus was the experienced one and this was only Tomas’s second month in the game.  Tomas claimed not to be keeping count of the exorcisms, saying that it seemed somehow inappropriate, but Marcus was aware that it was only his fourth. 

                Marcus nodded, and Tomas sagged with relief. 

                This had been a tough one for them both, not so much because the demon was particularly strong, but because of the conditions in which they were working.  Melanie had been frail when they arrived—thin and dehydrated—but now she was positively emaciated.  She was by no means out of the woods, and meanwhile they were very much _in the woods_.  Marcus had done his best to rig Melanie with one of his home-made hydration stations, but on the First Nation of Pelican Ridge, 200 kilometres north of Sioux Lookout in Ontario, Canada, clean water was not easy to come by.  The reserve had been under a boil water advisory for two years and bottled water cost five dollars a litre.  Marcus was happy to pay that out of his own pocket.  The problem was a lack of supply.  He’d bought every bottle that he dared, all too aware that there were other people on the reserve who also needed water and kicking himself for not bringing a case with him from Sioux Lookout.

                “She needs a hospital,” he told Melanie’s parents, who stood looking at him with desperate but hopeful faces. 

                Richard Fox shook his head, and Marcus knew even before he said it:  “There is no hospital here.”

                “What do you have?”

                “A nurse's station.  They have some medical supplies.”

                “She needs to be on an IV and some antibiotics if possible.”

                Fox nodded.  “We’ll take her on the snow machine.  It’s not too far.”

                And here was the truly remarkable part of the situation.  Despite the fact that it was May, it had begun snowing heavily more than twelve hours earlier, and the little house with its cast iron wood stove and poor insulation was nearly snowed in.  Richard and Anna had informed Marcus that, even this far north, this was extreme. Blizzards in April and May were not unheard of, but they were unusual. They had kept the wood stove stoked so it was stiflingly hot inside, and managed to maintain a path to a woodpile outside while Marcus and Tomas shouted and prayed and entreated the demon over the past four days. 

                It had not been Marcus’s first trip to Canada, although it was one of just a few, and the first time on reserve.  They had driven due north from Sioux Lookout, literally to the end of the highway.  From here onward, there were a number of communities accessible only by plane or ice roads, and he was profoundly grateful that they would be able to drive away from this job, assuming they could get the truck moving.  Tomas had been in a state of wonder through it all; even having experienced the bitter winters of Chicago for a number of years, he had never seen so much snow.   Neither of them were well-prepared, having recently spent a lot of time in the mid and southern United States, where it was truly spring.  When they’d left Fort Worth, the first flowers had been in bloom.

               For the last few days, though, there had been no time to wonder at the weather.  Neither of them had slept at all, and they were both ready to drop.  As much as Marcus wanted to get back in the truck and go back to Sioux Lookout where there was reliable electricity and heat and hot water, he didn’t think it was a good idea right now.  The highway might even be closed at this point.

               Even as he watched, Tomas sagged onto the bench that served as part of the family seating in the little house.  His head, his shoulders—his entire body, in fact, was drooping.  Marcus knew exactly how he felt.  He was very familiar with that abrupt loss of adrenaline when an exorcism was suddenly over and you were no longer a spiritual warrior filled with God’s will but a mere human being who had used every last emotional, physical and psychological resource.

                “Richard, Anna… forgive me, but I must ask.  Would it be all right if we claimed your bed?”

                Despite the seriousness of the moment, Tomas shook his head, smirking a little.  Anna’s mouth quirked, and Richard uttered a small bark of a laugh. 

                “Of course,” he said.  “You sleep and help yourself to anything we have here.  We may be gone for a while.  I’ll make sure you have plenty of wood in here before we go.  Do you know how to maintain a fire?”

                Tomas and Marcus exchanged a look, and Marcus was quite conscious that, as the elder _and_ the one of them from cold weather climes, he had to be the responsible one here.

                “Sure,” he said.  “I can keep a fire going.  Now, if you ask me can I _start_ a fire, that’s another story.”

                “Don’t let it go out then,” Richard said. 

                “Right.”

                “Is there anything to eat?” Tomas asked, not quite politely.  Marcus knew he didn’t mean for it to come out that way, as he normally had exquisite, grandmother-approved manners.

                “Richard,” Anna said quietly.  She was standing in the doorway with her daughter in her arms, wrapped in a quilt.  The one word was a clear summons.

                Richard answered Tomas with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. “There’s some bear and squirrel meat but it’s frozen.”  Tomas’s eyes got very round and his mouth dropped open.  He winced a little, as though having noticed that his lip was busted.  He put up two fingers and touched the bottom lip, lightly, while Richard went on to say, “Just kidding.  There is some dried moose, though, and it’s very good.  You’ll like it.  There’s also bread and peanut butter and jam, and… a few bottles of water left.  You can melt snow and make tea if you want.  We have lots of tea.”

                Marcus sighed to himself.  _God bless the colonies_ , he thought, but didn’t dare say.

                “The stove is propane.  Don’t blow up the house.”

                Within ten minutes, Richard had brought in enough wood to last a week, while the snow mobile burbled outside.  There had been a few, perilous seconds when the motor coughed a little and seemed reluctant, but then it started right up.

                Very soon, Marcus and Tomas were alone.  Tomas went to the door, peered out.  “I think I can get to the truck,” he said.  “Get our stuff.”

                Marcus wasn’t so sure he wanted to let Tomas go out into the wilds of Canada unaccompanied—which was just laughable because Tomas was a grown man who had successfully looked after himself for years before Marcus ever came along, and it was just bloody snow and trees and maybe a few howling wolves.  Still, Marcus was currently responsible for him and, only two months into the apprenticeship he was having a little trouble letting go of the reins. 

                “All right but make it quick!”

                Tomas rolled his eyes but said nothing. 

                It was not very cold out, not with the snow falling, just below freezing.  Marcus stood in the open door and watched Tomas running towards the truck, breaking a path through waist-high snow in his silly, shiny dress shoes.  As soon as they got back to a place with a mobile signal he was going to call Bennett and tell him he needed a clothing and equipment stipend, because he was going to buy Tomas and himself each a pair of boots. 

               Marcus stared out at the night and savoured the crisp, fresh air and mottled, woolly yellow sky.  He had to admit he hadn’t seen its like before, as though the snow was glowing against the clouds from which it fell.  The snow engendered a sort of meditative silence, soaking up all that was loud or abrupt or out of place.  He’d never heard such quiet, and he wasn’t sure if he found it peaceful or frightening.  He was more used to the constant hum of cities.  He appreciated that distracting white noise.

               Tomas came back with a duffle bag in either hand and, like the child he was and despite his heavy, glassy-eyed exhaustion, he was laughing.  “Look at it, Marcus!” he said. 

               “I’m sure you’ve seen snow before, Tomas.”

               “Not like this.  Everything in Chicago is so dirty.  This is like a postcard.”  Tomas stepped inside and closed the door, brushing snow off his sleeves.

               “I don’t know if you’d feel that way if you lived here,” Marcus said.  “Look around.”

               “You don’t need to preach to me about life lived in difficult conditions, Marcus.  I grew up in an apartment that was barely more than one room but I was still lucky compared to some.  And I have seen people living in absolute poverty who are still able to find joy in the world.  There is a reason that our Lord came first to the poor, the slaves, the marginalized—“

               “All right, all right,” Marcus soothed.  Sometimes when he was tired, Tomas got combative, and his voice had been going just a little shrill.  “Let’s not have a debate right now.  Right now all I want is a good hot cuppa and a long winter’s nap.”

               Certain topics could always get Tomas going, and especially things that touched on that tension between the two contradictory tendencies in the church—on one hand, the power and prestige born of the triumphant Roman church and, on the other hand, the direct appeal of its very earliest followers to the lowest of the low.  Tomas’s sympathies were solidly on the side of the latter, not surprising for a Catholic from the part of the world that had birthed Liberation theology—even if he had an almost religious reverence for hot showers and had been tempted by the much vaunted rectory of St. Bridget’s in Chicago.  

               Tomas’s shoulders slumped, his eyes cast down for a few seconds.  “Sorry, Marcus.”  When he looked up again, they seemed to be glistening a little.

               “Oy, what’s the matter?” Marcus asked.  He hesitated a moment, then reached over to cup his apprentice’s cheek.  During the past few weeks, he’d been finding himself frequently wanting to touch and stifling that impulse, not sure how Tomas would feel about it.  After the Rance exorcism there had been an unquestionable warmth and even a closeness between them and, two months later, they were on the brink of a new degree of intimacy.  Marcus was a touchy-feely guy, but he didn’t have a sense yet of how Tomas would respond to his next-level violations of personal space. 

               Two months on the road together had enabled Marcus to learn Tomas in different ways.  He had been familiar with that strange mixture of youthful uncertainty and level confidence, even cockiness at times, but he’d come to see also that Tomas contained a lonely wellspring of sadness that he almost never allowed to show.  As yet, Marcus had no clues as to where it came from, but it was something worth exploring further.  It was just the sort of thing that could fester and be exploited by demons.  Marcus had learned long ago to wear his pain on his sleeve so he could never be caught out.

               “Nothing,” Tomas said.  “I’m just…really needing sleep.”

               “Seriously, Tomas.”

               “Nothing, I…just thought I…it’s nothing.”

               Giving him a final look, Marcus went to make tea.  While he did that, Tomas made some peanut butter and jam sandwiches.  They each changed into sweats, and then shared a meal of sandwiches, moose jerky, hot tea and biscuits.  It was truly one of the best meals Marcus had ever enjoyed.  Then they found Richard and Anna’s bed.  It was nothing terribly luxurious but it did boast a very warm Hudson’s Bay blanket, an animal pelt (Marcus was not experienced enough to identify the animal by its fur) and flannel sheets. 

               It wasn’t the first time they had shared a bed, but it was the first time they’d had to share a double, a really tight squeeze for two grown men of their size.  Tomas tried to lie down first on his back but must have felt he was taking up too much space because he quickly turned to his side, perched on the edge and presenting his back to Marcus as though he feared for his privacy.  Marcus gave himself less than half a minute to fret before manhandling them into a much more comfortable arrangement—with himself as the big spoon. 

               “Don’t worry, luv, I’ll behave myself,” he said. 

               “Who says _I_ will?” Tomas mumbled, doubling down.  He pushed Marcus’s hand up a little higher on his chest. Then, after a brief little fumble, he grabbed at it.  “Is this okay?” he said. 

               “’So we, though many, are one body in Christ,’” Marcus replied.

               Tomas got halfway through a snort.  Meanwhile, Marcus lost consciousness almost immediately.

               He dreamed that he was in hell.  At least, it must have been hell from the way he was sweating.  He was lying in a lake of fire holding onto a demon, and the demon was breathing hot lava in his face.

               Marcus flung himself away from the demon and kicked it as hard as he could.  _Don’t hold back when battling the forces of evil_ , _lad_ , had been Father Sean’s advice on the matter.  He thought he heard it yell something.  Satisfied, he rolled over and went back to sleep. 

               When he opened his eyes, he was shivering.  He had the blankets pulled up to his chin and he could see his breath puffing out in front of him in little white clouds.  It took him a second to recall where he was, and then he sat up, looking around wildly.  It was daytime, which was a good thing because all the lamps had burned down.  Bright sunlight was shining in the east-facing windows and the air in the room felt absolutely frigid.  The temperature outside must have dropped considerably, and worse, the fire had gone out. Twisting, he saw that Tomas was lying there beside him still asleep, except that Marcus had all the covers and Tomas had none.  And the reason that Marcus was shivering was mostly that _Tomas_ was shivering, so violently that he was almost making the bed quake.

                “Oh, bloody hell!” 

                Marcus touched Tomas’s face.  It felt cold.  Very cold.  He remembered being uncomfortably hot in the middle of the night, dreaming about a demon in his bed.  He’d never been a good sleeper.  He must have been tossing and turning and kicked Tomas out—and then, at one point he’d gone and stolen all the blankets. 

                “Shit.  Damn.  Fuck!” 

                “Wh-wh-what?” Tomas asked.  He struggled, visibly, to open his eyes.  “What, is the demon—?”

                “Oh, Christ.  Here.”  Marcus unwrapped himself and arranged all the covers on Tomas, right up to his nose.  “We let the fire go out, Tomas.  I need to restart it.”

                Bloody hell. 

               He’d known that he wouldn’t be a good influence but this was the last way he’d have bet on it playing out.  Physical or emotional abandonment were what he envisioned on his worst days.  Neglecting Tomas’s needs, or screwing up his training, until Tomas ran away for his own good.  Somehow ruining Tomas as an exorcist and a priest, driving him away from God.  Losing him to the Adversary.  All these fears had had their way with Marcus over the past eight weeks.  He’d never understood just what a luxury it was to be responsible solely for himself. 

                Miserable with cold and guilt, he ambled over to the wood stove.  He wondered if it might actually be warmer outside.  The core floor, uninsulated wood fibres suspended over a crawlspace filled with icy air, was burning his feet through his thin socks.

               At least there was wood, and dry brush for kindling, and newspapers and long matches.  Everything an arsonist could want.  Richard had not left him unprepared, and Marcus cursed himself again.  He drew upon every movie, TV show and public service spot he’d ever seen and built a little pile of sticks inside the stove, stuffing it with kindling.  He lit the kindling, using the paper to get things started, and then tried to construct a canopy of larger pieces of wood around it.  Everything looked promising for a few minutes, and then the kindling burned down and nothing had caught. 

               So he tried the same process all over again.  Maybe you had to believe in the fire, just like you had to believe that God would come to cast out a demon.  The Fire That Might Be would know if you didn’t have faith.  Problem was, the fire knew him, knew he was a fraud.  Was there a patron saint of fire makers?  Would God forgive him if he appealed to Prometheus on this occasion?

               Again, the brush burned down and the wood didn’t catch.

               “Dammit to hell!” Marcus shouted.

               Tomas half sat up in the bed.  His thick hair was tousled and messy, a few strands dropping in untamed curls on his forehead, and he looked adorably confused.  “Whah?  What-t isss…is-s…it?”  Not so adorable when Marcus recalled from something he had read sometime, somewhere, the symptoms of hypothermia.  Slurred words, confusion, disorientation.

               “I can’t seem to get this piece of shite to work.”

               “Try resss…..” Tomas trailed off.

               “Say again?”

               “The boiler… it needs-s restarting…sometimes.”

               Marcus frowned at him.  Tomas quietly laid back down as though chastised.

               For a time, Marcus stared at the wood stove, combing his mind for any and all knowledge that he might have gleaned in his fifty-three years having to do with fire management.  Camping had been sadly absent from the recreation programmes at the home for boys, and then in the Church.  He’d been lucky to get a Christmas present now and then.  And somehow in the forty years since, he’d never had occasion to have to start a fire on his own.  He’d lived rough.  He’d been in deserts, in the tropics, and even in some pretty cold, wintry situations, but never been in a situation like this.  He’d been without an adequate supply of food, of water.  He’d even had to shit in a hole in the ground.  None of that had made him feel anywhere near as desperate, as _endangered_ , as he was at this moment. 

               As if trying to up the ante, Tomas abruptly sat up in the bed once again, swinging his legs over the side.

               “Where are you going?” Marcus snapped.

               “I’m hot.”

               "No, no, no.  Stay where you are.”

               “But—but I’m hot, M-Marcus.”  Tomas was actually trying to squirm out of his sweater.

               “Except you’re not.”  Marcus hurried over to the bed.  He put his hands on Tomas’s shoulders and pushed him back.  Tomas’s skin was as close to white as he could ever get and, most terrifying, he was not shivering anymore.  “Tomas, listen to me.  You have hypothermia.”

               “Hypo…that’s ridic-o-lus, Marcus.”

               “Maybe it is, but it’s also the truth.”

               “How…can I be so warm…if I am so cold?”

               Marcus laid the back of his hand against Tomas’s cheek.  “I’m touching your skin right now and I’m telling you, you are very cold.  You just think you’re warm.”

               “I don’t believe you.”

               Marcus had to blink away an actual pang of distress and remind himself that Tomas was not being deliberately confrontational.  “You’ll hurt my feelings, luv.”

               “But…what about you, Marcus?  Aren’t you cold?”

               “Yes, well… I am, but I had all the covers, you see.”

               “You stole them.”

               “Yes.  I’m so sorry.”

               “You always steal the covers.”

               Marcus wanted to protest the fairness of that sweeping judgement but again had to remember that Tomas was not in any state to be making sense.  He said, “The point is, I’m very sorry because now we’re going to have to get naked with each other, my friend.”

               Tomas stared at him, seemingly aggrieved. 

               “No, I am not _warm for your form_ , as the kids say.  This is the best way to deal with this situation right now.  You believe me on this?”

               Tomas shrugged. 

               “Brilliant.  Lift your arms up then.” 

               Tomas frowned and pouted a little but lifted his arms up.   Marcus felt a bit like he was undressing a doll as he tugged on both sleeves and gently pulled the sweater over Tomas’s head.  He was again stricken at how pale Tomas was despite his warm colouring.  There was a blueness to his lips that was terrifying.  Marcus was no expert, but he knew that when a person stopped shivering, they were past “mild” hypothermia.  The fear started to twist in him as he envisioned himself having to tell Olivia he’d killed her brother. 

               “Pants off,” Marcus ordered.

               At least Tomas was in a more compliant mood than a few moments ago.  He nodded and reached for the drawstring of his pants, but his hands were so clumsy that he couldn’t seem to work them.  Marcus had to help him, which was awkward and embarrassing, the two of them fighting with to get the tangled material down his legs.  Halfway through, Tomas gave up and lay down on his back, giggling, his hand over his eyes. 

               Marcus lost patience and yanked the pants off Tomas’s legs.  Completely business-like, he went into the other bedroom and stole all of the bedcoverings from Melanie’s bed, piling them on top of Tomas with everything else.  Finally, he stripped down himself and dove under the mountain of blankets.  Tomas, who had been only half unconscious, startled and cried out. 

               “It’s just me,” Marcus soothed.  “C’mere.” 

               He touched Tomas’s shoulder and Tomas yelped.  “Your s-s-s-skin ss-o hot... You-you’re burnnn-in’ up…Marcus!” 

               The slur in Tomas’s voice was definitely worse. 

               “I’m not, Tomas.”  Marcus tried to wrap his arms around Tomas, pulling at him.

               “S-stop!” Tomas cried, kicking out and pushing at him with his arms straight out.

               “Tomas, listen to me—”

               “NO!”

               “You are sick and you need this.”

               “I’m g-going outs-s-ide!”

               “No, you’re not.”

               “ _Si…si_ … _d_ _éjame solo_ …!”

               “You are not, dammit.”

               “ _D_ _éjame solo_!”

               “Tomas!” Marcus flattened Tomas on the bed, all but kneeling on top of him.  He was well-versed in being cruel to be kind and if that was the necessity of the moment, he could step up.  “I’m done explaining myself.  You are going to cooperate now or you’re going to die.  Are we clear?”   

               Staring up at Marcus like he had just been betrayed by Judas himself, Tomas nodded.  He made no protest other than to twitch in reaction as Marcus collected him in, putting arms and legs around him, tucking his head under his chin.  His skin was absolutely icy and Marcus had to fight the instinct of his body to withdraw, to protect its own comfort.  He’d already followed that instinct once, in his sleep, and this had been the result.        

               “Tomas,” Marcus coaxed.

               No response.  The damned cub may have been sulking.

               “Tomas.  Tomas.”

               “What? What you want?”  Somehow, Tomas sounded both sleepy and agitated at the same time.  “Marcus, what—?“  Tomas struggled a little against him, trying to raise his head.

               “No, don’t start that again,” Marcus said.  “I just want you to talk to me.”

               “Am…talking.”

               “Well.  Okay, yes, you are, at the moment.  You got me there.”

               “Tired.  Don’t want to talk.”

               “I know, I’m tired too.  But it’s not time to sleep just yet.”  Marcus decided to try rubbing Tomas’s numb arm.  “Can you feel that?”

               “Whah?”

               Marcus bit his lip.  “Me.  Massaging your arm.”

               “Oh, that.”

               Marcus smiled a little.  “Tell me, what did the demon say to you?”

               “Huh?”

               “Just before that last rally, when we were starting up again.  She said something to you in Spanish and I didn’t catch it.”

               Tomas was quiet.

               “Hey.”  Marcus gave him a shake.  “Don’t go to sleep.”

               “Not.”

               “So what did she say?”

               Tomas sucked a breath and let it out like a long, shaky vibration.  “Nothing.  It said… you know God never wanted you.  You’re not…that I’m not…”

               “Not…?”

               “Not a priest.  Not really.”

               “What rubbish.”

               Tomas’s laugh was like a cascade of shivers, shaking himself and Marcus together.  “I used to worry a lot ‘cuz I never heard God’s voice.  I b-believe in God, always believed in Him.  Believe in Jesus, the one who’s…a poor man, wanted to save…pure love.  Not a king.”  He seemed desperate to explain himself but at a loss for words in his current state.

               “I know,” Marcus said quietly.  He’d met a lot of priests in his time.  Plenty of them had absolute certainty in their vocation.  They could itemize and transcribe every time God had taken them aside for a little chat.  And some—too many—had less compassion and understanding of Christian ethics than your average block of wood.

               “Just want to follow his example.  I want to help people…so much, I want to help people.  Don’t know if that’s what I’m doing now.”

               “How can you ask that?”

               Again, Tomas didn’t answer and Marcus just let him be. 

               Holding him should not have been comfortable but there was a part of Marcus that exulted in it, something that had nothing to do with sex or desire and everything to do with ownership, protection, and intimacy.  He hadn’t been absolutely dedicated to his vows of celibacy in his life, and it wasn’t always easy to tame his desire for other human bodies.  There were times when he went to bars and picked up strangers to assuage his damned loneliness, just so he could be intimate with another human being.  Those times were nowhere near as satisfying as this, because he knew Tomas, and loved him.  He craved to touch, and be touched by, someone he loved, and it was miraculous to him that, at this point in his life, he might actually have that, without ever violating his vows.

               A time passed.

               Marcus fell into a meditative rhythm not unlike the kind he sometimes experienced when saying rosaries.  After a while the words would become meaningless, just a series of repetitive, soothing drones tapped out by his fingers against the beads and the in and out of his own breath over his lips and tongue.  Only now he was rubbing slow, careful circles on Tomas’s bare back, alternating with long strokes up and down his spine.  He made patterns of pure love and need and _dear Lord, don’t let him die…don’t let him die, don’t let him die…._ He felt his own heart, at first thundering with emotion, gradually settling down into a slow, peaceful pulse. 

               He was shaking—but no, no.  It was Tomas who was shaking. Tomas was shivering, and so was Marcus, but that was okay.  It meant, paradoxically, that Tomas had warmed up a bit, that his body was able to produce heat.

               “Thank you, Lord,” Marcus whispered.  In a little while he would get up and make some tea for them and everything would be okay.  “Thank you.”

                “Wh-whut?” Tomas chattered.  “Why s-so c-cold?”

                “You’ve got hypothermia, luv,” Marcus explained patiently.  “Remember?”

                “N-no—Marcus—? Where—whare—m-my c-clothes-s?”

                “I had to get you warm and this is how you do it.  They must not teach you this stuff in Mexico, huh?”

                “Not…h-high p-priority.”  Tomas pressed in closer to Marcus, like he was trying to worm under his skin. “God, I’m freezing!”  Then he stilled.  “I-I’m sorry, I—”

                “Tomas.  We’re both naked here.  I think we’re past being shy.”

                Tomas muttered something.

                “What?”

                “S-so embarrassing.”

                “How d’you figure?”

                “I was talking about how pretty it was…the snow…”

                “I’m the one who screwed up.  I let the fire go out, I stole all the covers.  And I should have made sure we were more prepared.”

                “I’m a grown human being, I can look after myself, Marcus.”

                “No, I’m the Yoda and you’re the Skywalker in this situation.  I’m in charge, I’m supposed to know better.”

                Tomas lifted his head to gape incredulously at Marcus.  “Did you…c-c-c-ompare yourself to Y-Yoda?”

                “Obviously.”

                “I think that’s a s-stretch.”  Tomas’s shivering was nearly violent.  Marcus snuggled him as close as he could without stripping off his skin and going under, and pulled the blankets closer. 

                “Really.  I thought you respected me a little more than that.”

                “I do, I really do.  But—you know—Yoda h-had s-six hundred ye-years—”

                “Nine hundred.”

                “What?”

                “Nine hundred.  He trained Jedi for nine hundred years.”

                “Okay.  He train J-Jedi for nine hundred years and you—you, Marcus, you’re—really amazing, really—y-you’re incredible, but you’ve only been doing this f-for for-for-ty years.”

                Marcus grinned down at his nerd apprentice.  “Fair enough.”

                “Anyway.  And…you are… not the…boss of me.”

                “I beg to differ.”

                “You treat me like a… a kid, Marcus.  Like a…”

                “Padawan?”

                “A what?”

                “You know.  A padawan.”

                “Oh, right.  No, see, thass…my point.”

                “Tomas?” Marcus put a hand under Tomas’s chin and tilted his head up.  He didn’t seem any worse than he had been a moment ago.  “How do you feel?”

                “Cold,” Tomas chattered.

                “Okay.”

                “Can you—maybe—use the Force to start a fire?”

                Marcus sighed.  He didn’t want to leave the warmth of the covers, and even more, he didn’t want to let go of his partner.  Maybe when he came back Tomas wouldn’t be quite so amenable and the moment of extreme openness between them would have ended. He really didn’t want to demonstrate his lack of Yoda-ness when it came to campfire skills.  But he couldn’t say no to such a request.

                “All right,” he said.

                He got up, and immediately began saying prayers with the volume and tone of curses as his bare feet touched the floor.  He yanked on clothing with reckless abandon, layer after layer, while Tomas pulled all the blankets up over his head. 

                “Dear God, please send all your angels and ministers to this place and give me strength in this my hour of need.  God, please make me a means of thy heat.  Erm, thy peace.”

               Marcus continued his litany of vituperative prayer as he confronted the wood stove, starting yet again with the kindling and the matches and dry paper.  He lit a match, holding it up before him like a priest offering the Eucharist in consecration.

                “Please.  _Please_.  I swear to you, I will make amends for all the sins in my life, I will do penance as a personal aide to Bennett for as many years as you want, only please let me start this fire.  I beg of thee.  I ask not for myself but my Padawan, who just happens to be strong in the ways of the Force.  You don’t want him to die in a hut in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, do you?  You can’t tell me that was your plan.  Or even for him to lose his toes.  He needs his toes.  Also, for the record, I need _my_ toes.  I have served you faithfully, haven’t I?  I’ve gone wherever you wanted me, sacrificed love, family, friendships, all I ask is a little fucking fire—"

                The fire caught.

                “Yass!” Marcus whooped.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so accomplished.  He was seriously chuffed, even if he might have just sold his soul to Bennett for the foreseeable future.  “Through Christ our Lord, Amen!” 

                He had to wait a bit longer, to build up the fire with more logs so it would really start to throw some heat.  By the time he was done that, he was shivering from head to toe.  He ran for the bed, shaking with cold and relief, stripped down again and flung himself back in it.  Tomas whined and kicked at him when he tried to embrace him again, then settled down as Marcus warmed.  In fact, Tomas dug in to Marcus’s skin, making small noises like an animal finding his comfort, pulling himself immeasurably closer with each little grunt. 

                “And here I was worried you’d be uncomfortable with all this naked touching,” Marcus said, amused.

                Tomas lifted heavy eyelids. “Hmm?”

                Marcus considered.  He wasn’t sure Tomas was entirely with him in the room.  His skin didn’t feel quite as cold, and he did seem less confused.  However, he was still a bit loopy and Marcus wasn’t yet sure if that was his general exhaustion or a symptom. 

               “Tomas?  How do you feel?”

               “Better.  Still cold, but better.”

               “That’s good.  And you will still respect me in the morning?”

               “Hmm?  Marcus, I will always respect you.”

               Marcus chuckled.  “It’s an expression, luv.  I want to make sure that we won’t get all awkward with each other because we shared naked times.”

               “Oh,” Tomas said.

               After a minute or so, Marcus started to suspect that Tomas was hiding his face.  “And…now it’s awkward.”

               “It’s not what you think.  I’m not embarrassed by this.  I guess, I’m…I’m worried that you will be embarrassed by _me_.”

               “Why would I be embarrassed by you?”

               “That you had to do this.”  There was a flash of hazel eyes as Tomas lifted his head.  “Most men aren’t comfortable embracing other men.  Even with their clothes on.  And I guess I’m afraid that you will think I am weak.” 

               The eyes pleaded with him as though Tomas really believed that Marcus could think such things.  Marcus figured he should just tackle the issues one at a time.     

               “Tomas, hypothermia isn’t exactly something you can fight off with an extra helping of machismo.  You get that, yeah?”

               “Yeah,” Tomas breathed, and ducked his head in a way that made it seem like he was nuzzling Marcus, and which Marcus didn’t mind at all.

               “And have I somehow given you the impression that I’m the kind of man who would be embarrassed by touching another man?”

               “No,” Tomas muttered.

               “And, for the record, you do know that I’m not straight, yeah?”

               Tomas nodded.

               “I assume that’s not a problem?”

               Tomas shook his head. 

               “So, then…where is all this coming from?”

               There was a long pause before Tomas spoke.  “It’s not just… _some_ touching, it’s…”

               “Intimate.”

               “Yes.”

               “Too intimate for you?”

               Again, it took Tomas a long time to answer.  Marcus held his breath, held his hopes quiet and still and right next to his heart, not wanting to seem to be pressuring him.  “No,” Tomas said, almost whispering.  “Not too intimate.”

               Marcus wanted to growl with frustration.  “Tomas, _talk_ to me!”

               “Okay, okay.”  Tomas paused like he was thinking about how to start.  “When I was a boy, in Mexico, I had some trouble…adjusting.  I lived with my _abuela_ , you know that, and she—well, she thought everything I did was wonderful.  She lavished love and attention on me.  She was always hugging me and kissing me and telling me what a perfect boy I was and—“

               “You resented it?” Marcus suggested.

               “No,” Tomas said.  “I _loved_ it.  I loved my _abuelita_ so much, I wanted to be with her all the time and there was a period when I didn’t want to leave her to go to school.  Especially because—because the other boys would give me a hard time.  I didn’t know how to be a boy, like other boys, you know?  All I knew was when you felt like it you hug someone and if someone needs help, you help them, and—and—when you are sad, you cry.  I had no idea that being a boy with other boys meant something different and…it was hard.”

               Marcus could see it now.  Tomas as a child with his big bambi eyes, trying to kiss and hug everyone, probably rescuing injured animals in the school yard like some Disney princess.  Marcus had grown up amongst a society of mini-thugs who lived by the rule of hardscrabble competition and unmonitored violence, boys who’d had it rough and were already practiced in aggression.  Marcus had been born into that world and eked out a life in it despite his more affectionate impulses.  Regular school boys wouldn’t be quite as bad as that, but still…they would have eaten a boy like Tomas alive.

               “What did they do?” Marcus asked quietly.

               “Mostly they laughed.  They called me things.  _Maric_ _ón_.  Faggot.  _Puto_ , sometimes.  Once or twice they actually beat me up but mostly they liked to make me cry in front of them… and then they would just laugh and laugh.  And when _abuelita_ came to the school to yell at the principal…”

               “That just made it worse.”

               “Yes, because I needed an old woman to protect me.  Never mind that she could be absolutely terrifying.” Tomas uttered a deep, shaky sigh.  “Finally I moved to a different school and…I learned.  I learned to be a real boy.”  He laughed a harsh, self-mocking laugh.  “At least to pretend it a bit better.  I learned how to fit in.  And I went away to school in Chicago, and I took my vows…”

               Tomas looked up then, and Marcus found himself gazing into a deep, dark well of pain. 

               “Until you pinned me against that door, Marcus,” he whispered.  “Hardly anyone had touched me…for years.  I had my sister and I had Luis and…”  Tomas smiled faintly.  “I got attacked by a demon.  But then...”

               “Jessica,” Marcus supplied.

               “And I know how this sounds, but it wasn’t about sex.  I mean, yes, it was about sex but it was like this part of me woke up that remembered what it was like to be a person who was—was touched by a person who loves them and was just—“

               “Screaming for attention?”

               “ _Si_ …yes.  Again, I know it sounds…terrible, but I think I could have stopped myself sooner if it was just sex.  And I started to feel like—like sex was the price I had to pay for her affection—and I hated thinking that way about her—“

               Marcus couldn’t find any words to answer with.  All he had, the best he could do, was to just cradle Tomas’s head in close and remind Tomas that he was loved.  Marcus had never really faulted Tomas for violating his celibacy—he was the last one to judge—although the breaking of marriage vows was not to be taken lightly in his opinion.  He had been concerned mainly because he knew how much shame Tomas would be feeling about it, misplaced or not. Shame was like a river for demons to use to ride their victims down to hell.  The rules that the Church placed on priests and people at large around sex and the body, they bred shame, opened the doors to all manner of evil. 

               “And it’s been over for two months now and since we left Chicago,” Tomas went on.  “No Olivia, no Luis…no Jessica.  I am that kid in the school yard again.”

               This was just more proof of what Marcus already knew:  The Church had gotten this wrong, so wrong.  He did not believe it was natural or right for human beings to go their entire lives without being touched by people whom they knew, who loved them.  The fact that it was happening now, and only under these circumstances, made him want to howl with grief for himself and every other godforsaken human of the species.  But especially himself and Tomas. 

               “You are not that kid,” Marcus said, “because, in case you didn’t notice, I’m around.  I’m not going to beat you up if you want a hug.”

               “Or naked cuddling?” Tomas said.

               Marcus laughed.  “Or naked cuddling.”

               Four hours later, Richard returned to the house with one of the nurses from the station.  Struck by forewarning, or perhaps just deep insight, he’d had her bring heated blankets and warmed IV fluids.  By that time, the temperature in the house had risen to an almost comfortable temperature.  Marcus had gotten several cups of tea into both Tomas and himself, and they were both clothed again.  They were both back in the bed, Marcus lying up against a pile of pillows reading a Dean Koontz novel he’d found on a bookshelf.  Tomas was curled beside him, his head tucked against Marcus’s side, wearing three sweaters, two pairs of socks, and cocooned under four blankets.  He was deeply asleep, and Marcus was deeply content.

               Richard grinned upon seeing this tableau, a genuine grin such as Marcus had not yet seen on his face.

               “How is your girl?” Marcus asked him.

               “Okay,” Richard said.  “She’s going to be okay.  How is your boy?”

               “I had some bad moments, Richard, I’m not gonna lie.  I let the fire go out.”

               “I told you not to do that.”

               “I know, Richard.  I know.”  He didn’t try to defend himself by mentioning that he’d been up for three days and had been exhausted. 

               The nurse, who was about six feet tall and completely humourless, marched over to the bed in the biggest, clunkiest boots Marcus had ever seen and flipped back the covers, revealing Tomas in all his swaddling.  “He looks all right…but I need to take both your temperatures,” she informed Marcus, whipping a thermometer in plastic disposable packaging out of a side pocket.

                Marcus stared in horror, envisioning himself and Tomas subjected to terrible indignities. 

                The nurse sighed and rolled her eyes.  “Just put it under your tongue.”

                Marcus followed instructions and was pronounced “acceptable”.  When the Valkyrie seemed about ready to lean over and shake Tomas awake, Marcus blocked her with his body, throwing a hand out to further impress upon her his opinion on the matter.  “Let me.”

                She rolled her eyes again.

                Marcus poked Tomas gently.  “Hey.”

                “Mmmrph.”

                “Tomasss.”

                Tomas mumbled an impressively long and tongue-twisting string of syllables in Spanish, none of which were intelligible to Marcus, and none of which sounded at all pleased with him.

                “To-mas-it-o.”

                “No,” Tomas refused.

                “Open your eyes, Tomas.”

                “Why?”

                “Because there’s a nice nurse here who wants to take your temperature.”

                At this, Tomas’s eyes shot open.  He spotted the woman in scrubs and Gore-Tex looming over him and his eyes grew very large.  She extracted another thermometer from her pocket, slid it from its sealed slipcover, and gestured towards Tomas.  Tomas appealed silently to Marcus for help. 

                Marcus intercepted the thermometer.  “It’s okay, luv,” he said.  “It only goes in your mouth.”

                Thirty seconds later, Marcus read aloud that Tomas’s temperature was 36.4 degrees Celsius, on the low side of normal but not dangerous.  The nurse recommended a warm bath if possible (not until they got back to town), warm but not too hot tea (definitely doable) and continued snuggling (highly desired), until Tomas tested closer to 37 degrees.

                Marcus looked to Richard, who nodded.  “I’m going to go back to the nursing station for a bit longer,” he said.  “I’ll top up the fire.  You boys stay here and take it easy.”

                Tomas laid himself down and let out a long sigh.  Marcus got up long enough to make another pot of tea, then settled back with his book.  He pretended to read until Richard and the nurse finally left.  Richard tossed a knowing grin over his shoulder as he left.  While this was happening, Tomas was inching closer to Marcus, then closer, until he was again pressed up against his side.  Marcus draped an arm around his shoulders to make sure he knew he was welcome.  They were under medical orders, after all.

                The sunlight in the room moved from window to window, the fire crackled, and Marcus felt safe enough to sleep again.  This time, he did not dream.

 


End file.
